(rather free translation of a poem by Francois Coppee)
with a gratitude to Ada Veen
In rigolet of early hours,
When sultry sunrise swings the door
Through hazy mist, the forest marvels
At brushstrokes drying on the floor.
Their fall is gentle. One can grope for
Their lowly grace with knowing eyes:
The oak tree with its streak of copper,
The maple with its warped demise.
Their crusty fall from barren branches,
In winter’s beauty early rise,
When light is blind from golden patches -
October’s rusty paradise.